Pickpocketed Heart
by Shannon Vega
Summary: Brynjolf muses on being the husband of the Dragonborn. Kind of fluffy. Inspired by a prompt on the Elder Scrolls kinkmeme site.


Summary: Brynjolf muses on being the husband of the Dragonborn. Kind of fluffy. Inspired by a prompt on the Elder Scrolls kinkmeme site.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls games are owned by other people-people with lawyers and budgets and huge creative teams. This story is only for fun and I promise not to break the characters too, too much.

Author's Note: I know that I have been out of the writing loop for a while-and for anyone who still reads what I write, thank you. Feedback is welcome and constructive criticism is always welcome as well. Flames and flamers will be ignored and used solely for the purpose of heating my house.

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**Pickpocketed Heart**

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Brynjolf leaned back against the headboard. Sleep would not come tonight and he had a good idea why. It was the same reason why it hadn't come for the past week. Even after so many years of constant danger and excitement in the Thieves' Guild, nothing had prepared him for the realities of being the husband of the Dragonborn. Usually she took him with her, his presence at her side and in her bed her one true constant.

But not this time.

They'd argued a week before—about something idiotic and silly—and she'd stormed out of Honeyside the next morning before he'd even woken. Gone to the Bee and Barb and hired that mage—the one who made her laugh and who whined constantly.

Marcurio.

Brynjolf forced himself to relax and stop grinding his teeth. At this rate he was going to break a tooth. So what if his wife had taken someone else on her travels. It was to the Mage's College—it made sense for her to bring a mage, he reassured himself. But for her to bring the one mage who would happily bed her (well, at least the one mage who lived in their same town who wanted to bed her—he accepted that many wanted to bed his wife and often took pride in the fact that he was the one she always came home to) did not fill him with joy and rapture.

The sound of the door being unlocked roused Brynjolf from his thoughts and he lifted his gaze to meet his wife's.

She stood there, her clothing slightly singed and her hair full of brambles and weeds, and stared at him. "I wasn't sure that you would be here when I came home," she admitted quietly, dropping her pack on the floor and throwing the bolt home on the front door to lock it.

Brynjolf got out of bed and slowly advanced on his wife. "I wasn't sure you were coming home," he replied, finally coming to a stop in front of the Dragonborn. He plucked the weeds and brambles from her curls, gently raking his fingers through her hair to free her from the worst of the snarls. Finally satisfied that he'd gotten the worst of it out, he dropped his gaze to meet hers. "You've been gone near a week, lass."

She nodded, dropping her gloves onto the pack at her feet and pressing her now bare fingers to his chest. "A week too long." She looked up, her bottle green eyes misting slightly. "I missed you, Bryn. I'm sorry that we fought," she whispered.

Brynjolf shook his head, gathering his bride to him. When he'd married her nearly two years before, he'd admitted that he had never thought himself for marriage. Now, he couldn't imagine his life without the petite Breton crushed to his chest. "As am I, lass. I've been buggered since you left."

She sniffled, burying her head against his chest. "No more fighting?"

Brynjolf chuckled. "Not bloody likely, lass. But no more leaving me behind when we're fighting." She smelled of smoke and mud. "Now, as lovely as you are to me, lass, can I interest you in a wee bath?"

She hiccupped a giggle, eyes glittering with unshed tears. "What did I do to deserve you?"

Brynjolf shrugged, leaning down to pick up his bride much as he had the first time he carried her over Honeyside's threshold. "Now, that, lass, is a mystery for the ages. I think it had something to do with pickpocketing my heart, though."

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**FIN**

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